


From Jakku, With Love

by isaw_eternity_theothernight



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Ben likes math, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Inspired by James Bond, Redeemed Ben Solo, Rey is a linguistics nerd, Soft Ben Solo, Spies & Secret Agents, World Travel, study abroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-10-10 05:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaw_eternity_theothernight/pseuds/isaw_eternity_theothernight
Summary: Rey Kenobi didn't expect to fall for sweet, awkward Ben Solo on her summer study abroad trip. She also never expected to see him again, after they part ways at the Berlin train station.Fate works in mysterious ways, and nearly a decade later she spots him across the room of a crowded gala. Ben is as charming as she remembers him, and Rey as stunning as he remembers her. Beneath their carefully erected walls and glamorous exteriors, however, lie secrets that could tear the very foundations of their lives apart.***Tags will be updated as the story progresses.





	1. The Terminal

_May 2009, Tegel Airport, Berlin_

Berlin smelled like cigarette smoke.

The city may also have smelled like flowers or sweat or roasting meat, but in her anxious, sleep-deprived haze Rey only managed to register the smoke. It clung to her; it was in her mouth, her nose, her hair, as she hurried through the international airport in search of her classmates.

Few things made Rey as nervous as being late. On campus, she was often outside the doors of closed classrooms, fiddling with a pen or a hair tie, waiting the fifteen or twenty minutes it would take for the room to empty. Being early meant always getting a seat. It meant always being prepared.

Unfortunately, her flight to Germany had left Dublin nearly an hour after it was supposed to, and her luggage had taken so long to appear that she had begun to wonder if it had even left Connecticut. After a heated discussion (involving broken German, several curses, and a great deal of hand gestures) with a worker at the terminal, she had located her suitcase and rushed off into the great maze of shops and tourists, cursing her own lack of foresight in forgetting to bring a map of the airport.

It had only been a half hour since landing, and Germany was already a disaster. Forget the summer classes, forget the money she’d spent getting here, maybe it would be easier just to go home.

Halfway through a sniffle-inducing inner monologue, Rey’s suitcase clipped the side of a magazine stand. As she tried to maneuver away from the stall without causing any damage, apologizing profusely to the owner, she swung around and ran squarely into the broad back of a young man.

He stumbled forward, his gangly frame nearly knocking over a nearby elderly couple in the tightly packed hallway.

“_Entschuldigung, bitte_.“ A few hurried apologies to the couple, and in another blink the man turned around, glaring at Rey.

He looked nearly as rumpled and worn out as she felt, with the bags under his eyes nearly as large and dark as the one he clutched firmly in his hand. In spite of his furrowed brow and irritated features, he was young, probably not much older than herself.

Before he could get a word out, Rey opened her mouth in an effort to explain herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run in to you, I got caught on the stand and my plane got in late and they nearly lost my luggage…” She could feel the tears beginning to well up again as she babbled to the stranger currently looming over her. “I’m completely turned around and I don’t have a map, and…” Rey trailed off, embarrassed. The man was staring at her, mouth slightly open as if about to say something. It occurred to her that he probably didn’t even speak English, much less care about the problems of some tourist.

She blinked rapidly, willing away the water threatening to spill over her cheeks. “And… this isn’t really any of your problem, so I’m just going to go. Sorry again.” Taking a deep breath, she wiped a hand over her face and edged past the young man, whose face had taken on a somewhat constipated expression.

Exactly thirty-eight steps later she found herself at a junction point between large hallways. To her left was a Belgian chocolate shop, to her right was a series of painted mannequins in large, colorful hats, and straight ahead was nothing but a sea of people and a maze of stores.

Rey sank onto a bench near the wall, cradling her face in her hands. She’d never find her group. Probably never even find her way out of the airport at this rate.

_I feel like Tom Hanks in _The Terminal_, where he’s stuck indefinitely in the airport and isn’t allowed to leave. _

With that thought, Rey burst into tears.

It seemed as though she sat on that bench for hours, the cold, hard metal stiffening her joints and adding to her overall discomfort, although it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. It was hard to keep track of time when feeling so sorry for herself.

It was most likely a matter of minutes, then, when she felt a person sit down rather heavily next to her on the bench.

“Hey, um, you ran off so fast that I couldn’t tell apologize to you for, well, whatever facial expression I was giving you.” Rey groaned internally, realizing that the man she had nearly bowled over had followed her. She wiped her eyes on an increasingly soggy sweatshirt sleeve and glanced toward him, praying desperately that he wouldn’t notice her red-rimmed eyes.

He was still rambling, hands moving along with his words. “Anyway, my mother says I have the worst poker face she’s ever seen, and that’s not even the first person I scared by accident, so don’t feel bad, I just wanted to say that I wasn’t trying to look so cranky…” Finally, he glanced down at her and stopped abruptly. “Are you crying?”

Rey sniffled. “No.”

The man’s eyes had widened almost imperceptibly. He stared at her, chewing on his lip. “You’re definitely crying.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Can I help? I didn’t mean to upset you so much.”

“Look,” she started, her voice thick, “you seem very nice, but I really just need to find where my class is. I was supposed to meet them ages ago, and I don’t have a map of the airport, and I’ve gotten all turned around.” _Compose yourself, Rey. _

He blinked. “Wait, you’re here with a class?”

“Yes, I just said– “, but she was cut off as he frantically began digging through his backpack. “What are you doing?”

“Didn’t you say you needed a map?”

“Wait, you had a map this entire time?”

He shook his head slightly, pulling out a crumpled guidebook to Berlin. “My German is terrible,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was trying to decipher it when you ran into me. Can you read it?”

Rey opened the book, flipping through it. “I can make out most of it. Although,” she said, squinting at a page near the back, “the entire back section is in English.”

“What?”

He snatched it back, furiously skimming the pages before smacking his head into his hand. “I can’t believe this. I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”

“And I’m the world’s latest idiot. Do you mind…” She gestured to it.

“Oh, right.” Handing it back to her, the young man sighed and sank against the bench. “I’m actually supposed to be meeting my class around here too, although for the life of me I can’t remember where.” He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes impatiently. “Are you here with a university, or a high school, or…?”

She looked over the book at him, then pointed at her sweatshirt. “I’m here with a bunch of other UMass students to do a language emersion study abroad with some preppy Ivy League kids. I’m sure your group will be much more interesting than mine.” The man chuckled, which was quickly stifled by a cough. “What did I say?”

“Would the preppy Ivy League kids be from the University of Pennsylvania, by any chance?”

“How did you know that?” He smirked at her. “Oh my god. You mean, you’re…”

A full grin lit up his face, showcasing twin dimples. “…A preppy Ivy League kid, at your service.”

She covered her face and leaned back, laughing for what seemed like the first time in days. “Oh no! You probably have a terrible first impression of me.”

When she glanced over at him again he was still looking at her, humor in his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad of an impression.” Rey quirked an eyebrow at him and he grinned. “I’ve had worse. Trust me.”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Solo. Figure if we’re in the program together we might as well introduce ourselves.”

His grip was warm and solid. “My name is Rey Kenobi. It’s nice to officially meet you, Ben.” She was almost sorry when he let go of her hand.

Ben stood up, stretching out his massive height, and shouldered his backpack. “Well, Rey,” he said. “What do you say we go find our class?”


	2. The Woman in Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I kept rewriting this chapter and honestly I hated where it was going, but I didn't know what to do about it, so I took a break. And the TROS happened, and then I started a new fic, and then the world decided to explode, and now, 8 (9?) months later, I'm finally back. Unlike originally planned, this chapter is not a second part of the prologue. It's a ten year time jump, and the rest of the background will be filled in over the next few chapters. I hope you enjoy!

_July 2019, Berlin_

In a small room high above the city center of Berlin, a woman wrapped in a fluffy white towel emerged from the adjoining hotel bathroom. Pausing to tuck the cloth more tightly around herself, she made her way to the large window across the room.

She peered out the window into the encroaching twilight, her hazel eyes carefully sweeping the ground below and following the line of the Berlin Cathedral up to the horizon. Reaching up, she drew the curtains against the lights of the city, blocking out the quickly approaching night.

The room was left in shadow. She returned to the bathroom, switching on the lamps as she walked past.

Save for a small suitcase rumpling the sheets of an otherwise impeccable bed, the hotel room was nondescript. Empty. It could have belonged to anyone.

She liked it that way. There was power in being anonymous.

A moment later she reappeared, a towel twisted around her hair replacing the one she had held to her torso. Against the dark wood of the coat closet, her silhouette was long and lithe, toned legs stretching up toward a strong stomach and small breasts. A puckered silver scar, nearly invisible in the low light, snaked its way from hip to ribcage.

Out of the closet she pulled a garment bag and laid it on the bed next to the suitcase, opening it to reveal a swath of dark red fabric. She shook out the dress and hung it carefully on the open door, her thin fingers smoothing out imperceptible wrinkles on the shimmering bodice.

The suitcase was opened next, its meager contents placed onto the bed one by one.

A pair of red satin shoes. 

A small white clutch fastened with a dull gold bauble.

A set of lingerie, in black lace.

A bag of makeup and a velvet jewelry box.

A large manila folder.

A bulletproof vest.

A set of knives in various lengths and widths.

A handgun.

She slid the underwear over her thighs unceremoniously, then reached for the bra, clasping it securely around her chest. In the floor length mirror opposite the bed she eyed herself, her lips pursed slightly. 

It would do. She grabbed the makeup and jewelry box and retraced her steps, setting them on the white marble countertop of the bathroom. Gently untwisting the towel from around her hair, she shook out her chestnut locks and reached for a comb and the hairdryer sitting beside the hot curling iron.

Comb, blow-dry, curl.

Thirty minutes later sleek waves tumbled over her shoulders, held in place with glittering pins. The makeup was set out next, in a neat row along the sink. Methodically she applied each product, her hands unhurried but precise. She wasted neither time nor movement on indecision.

At the end of the sink stood two identical gold tubes of lipstick. She reached for one, read the bottom carefully, then set it back on the sink and applied the other. The unused tube was then carried to the bed and tucked into the purse.

From the bed the woman took the bulletproof vest, and with well-practiced fluidity strapped it securely around her torso and fastened it at her waist. It fit snuggly, its material thin and flexible, yet strong.

She opened the folder, removing a short stack of colorful passports, and flipped through them. Bypassing the first few, she selected both British passports, the red German Reisepass, and the slim blue American passport. Three of these she set aside; the fourth joined the lipstick.

The woman fiddled for a moment with the something on the side of her vest. A moment later an opening appeared, and she slid the other three passports into the secret pocket, securing them around her ribcage. Refastening the pocket, she twisted in front of the mirror, readjusting them until they were invisible under the fabric.

Satisfied, she returned to the folder and withdrew a creamy white envelope. Golden letters addressing it to a Ms. Rachel Kent shone in the low light before it too was added to her purse.

It was time to finish getting dressed. Gently, so as not to wrinkle it, she removed the dress from its hanger and with sure hands unfastened the buttons running down the side.

Slowly she stepped into it, pulling it up over her hips, her torso, and finally slipping her arms in beneath the flimsy, over-the-shoulder straps. The stiff brocade bodice hid any visual evidence of the bulletproof vest, and the generous skirts allowed for a wide range of movement.

(Sewn into the inner lining of the skirt were roughly a thousand each in American dollars, British pounds, and euros. An outsider would have no way of knowing this, but the woman in red was well-aware of the wealth hidden in her dress.)

She rebuttoned the dress and appraised herself in the mirror. No, it would be quite impossible to tell that she was different than any other young woman attending the gala. Everything looked perfect.

Her gaze wandered to the bed and she turned, considered the weapons so far left untouched on the blankets. From the set of knives she selected narrow twin blades, each adorned with a decorative top, and sheathed them carefully into pockets at the heels of her red stilettos, one in each shoe. The shoes went on, shortly after.

Aided by a holster, she strapped the small gun to her thigh. Beneath the several thick layers of her skirt, it too was invisible.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she frowned, and returned to the bathroom where the velvet jewelry box sat, unassuming, on the sink. Inside lay a set of pearl earrings and a matching necklace. She strung the strand of pearls around her neck, settling them comfortably at her collarbone, and attached the earrings to her lobes.

Finished, she stared at her reflection for a moment, then slowly twisted the pearl in her right ear.

“This is Scavenger, code zero-five-four-nine, requesting audio and video confirmation.” Her accent was crisp, her voice low.

Nearly immediately, a response crackled to life in her ear. “Scavenger, we have received you. This is Trooper, confirming audio. Pilot, do you have visuals?”

“Visuals confirmed,” responded Pilot. “You look good, Cinderella – ready for the ball?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she quipped back. “You have information for me?”

Trooper came back on. “Target worked on security for the new wing of the museum. We have reason to believe he built a back door into the coding, but we don’t know where or why. We need to get a copy of everything he’s worked on for this project.”

“Understood. Target name?”

“Kylo Ren,” said Pilot. “You’ll receive more information at the gala.”

The woman nodded into the mirror, then reached up to twist the pearl again. The whine of the audio went silent. She reapplied the lipstick from the countertop and smiled into the mirror.

She was beautiful, and she knew it.

She was also very, very deadly.

Kylo Ren didn’t stand a chance.

Working quickly, she gathered the makeup and repacked her bag, then did the same with the suitcase. She dimmed the lights, grabbed her purse, and walked to the door, unlocking the deadbolt and chain.

Right before opening the door and entering the hallway, her face changed. Her stony, expressionless features softened, as she allowed a soft smile to grace her lips. Even her posture relaxed, taking on the easy, feminine grace of the young and carefree heiress she was impersonating that evening.

The Scavenger had become Ms. Rachel Kent.

She stepped through the doorway, locking her room behind her. It was nearly dark in the city, but the bars and restaurants would still be open for hours – the clubs were only now opening. She nodded and smiled as she passed a few well-dressed young couples on their way out and rushed to make it onto the ornate elevator at the end of the hall.

“Ground floor, please.” The elderly man who had held the door open smiled back at her, and they rode down in companionable silence.

The lobby of the hotel bustled with activity, but she did not loiter in it, instead weaving around people at the bar and lounging on the sleek leather sofas. Several other men and women in black tie finery stood in small clusters, and she studied them as she passed them by, committing their faces to memory in the event that she might see them at the museum later that night.

She finally made it through the gilded lobby and out into the street. Twilight was bleeding quickly into night, the last remnants of golden sunlight sinking behind the tops of the buildings.

She waved a taxi over and stepped in, gathering her skirts in behind her as she directed him to the address on her invitation.

Ten minutes later she paid her fare and stepped back out into the evening, staring up at the grandeur of the Museuminsel.

She waved once at the driver and walked away without glancing back.

(If, at the end of the night, the taxi driver had been asked to describe the passenger he had delivered at the steps of the Bode Museum at precisely 9:45 that evening, he would have said that she had been wearing red, that she’d said very little, that she’d tipped well, and that she had been quite lovely, although he would not be able to remember what exactly she looked like. He would remember that what little German she had spoken was excellent, but he had been unable to place her accent. In a few days he would have forgotten all about her.

As it was, no one did ask him to describe her, and he had completely forgotten her by the end of the night.)

At the door she presented the invitation made out to a Ms. Rachel Kent, as well the matching British passport in her purse. She allowed the guard to dig through her bag and smiled graciously at him when he returned it to her (having found nothing but some money, her identification, and a particularly nice tube of lipstick) and waved her inside.

Safely within the museum, she smirked, and reached up to her earring, twisting it lightly as she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Welcome to the Gala, gentlemen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Museumsinsel (Museum Island), the Bode Museum, and the Berlin Cathedral are all real places. They're also beautiful and worth looking up if you're interested in the setting of this chapter.
> 
> And again, to clarify, there has been a ten year time jump between the first chapter and this one. She also doesn't know who Kylo Ren is - make of that what you will. More will be clear soon, but until then thank you for reading!  
-K


End file.
